Brain damaged
by InvisibleBlade
Summary: When Sherlock receives a text of his brother telling him that John has been in a car accident he decides to finally "come back to life." When it is revealed that John has memory loss as a consequence of the accident the consulting detective decides to hide the dark truth of their past in order to have a fresh start with his friend.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:  ** This fanfiction was written to fill the Sherlockminibang challenge. Sherlock series three is so close I can almost taste it! This work is fully completed. So, son't worry about this being another of my WIP's. Go forth and enjoy the fic.

**Warnings**:Possible spoilers for series three. Feels.

**Summary:** When Sherlock receives a text of his brother telling him that John has been in a car accident he decides to finally "come back to life." When it is revealed that John has memory loss as a consequence of the accident the consulting detective decides to hide the dark truth of their past in order to have a fresh start with his friend.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

We all have our scars, the things that make us who we are, experiences, memories, and fractured happenings, damage that we we'll carry with us throughout our whole lifetimes. Sherlock Holmes possesses more than most people, but there is one that will haunt him forever, one that has left his soul blistered, and his barely existent heart bleeding back in 221B. This particular wound within Sherlock's being is ugly, disfigured, painfully weeping, and is in the shape of John Hamish Watson. No amount of time will ever be able to heal it, and with that knowledge, the detective is a broken version of himself.

The scar was permanent. It was a reminder of the biggest sacrifice Sherlock had ever had to make. It would have been easier to forget John completely, to erase him from his mind, and to act as if that one year of blissful happiness of living with the ex- army doctor had never happened at all. But the great consulting detective knew that would do no good at all. He would still have a feeling of gaping emptiness to contend with, only he wouldn't know what was causing it. Sherlock didn't do easy. It would seem he was drawn to pain like a magnet.

But that pain of the sacrifice and the knowledge that he could never see John again without endangering him was slowly eating him alive, drilling right down into his core, consuming him like a hungry beast. After killing off most of the men in Moriarty's web he made his home with the homeless community, slipping into the crowd with a graceful ease. He spent most of his days reliving the past, stuck in the room in his mind palace labelled 'John Watson'.

That one room had become his refuge. The rest of his mind was useless to him now. It was just a rusting jumble of fragmented facts and pointless information, covered by a thick sheen of dust. It didn't bring him any comfort. The only way he felt at ease was if he was walking through memories that contained John. If he concentrated really hard he could remember every little detail about the wonderful man. He could recollect how John smelt of gunpowder and tea, how soft his jumpers were to the touch, how his laughter was the most beautiful melody he'd ever heard, how warm John's hand when it was entwined with his own, and all of the wonderful things he had taught him about friendship. John had made him more human, and Sherlock didn't ever want to lose that, because if he did then he really would just be what John had last called him – a machine.

Of course, the memories he held of John weren't all highs, there were a numerous amount of lows too. The final sacrifice that Sherlock made so that John could live was probably the one which most haunted him, and the one he most relived too. He must have pictured that day a thousand times, for now he doesn't even have to close his eyes to see the images. He can picture it all vividly.

* * *

_ *flash back*_

_He can feel the rush of cold air as he took the leap. His coat billowed out behind him like a useless parachute. His black curls leapt from his skull, the gushing wind blowing them every which way. The adrenaline was what hit him first as he cheated death through articulate and precise science, and then the shock of having only a split second to react and get in position, whilst his friend was distracted. It was him who was lying on the cold floor, covered in a pint of his own blood, and therefore it was him who John ran through the crowd to get to, and he who had to stay painfully still as John's fingers brushed against his pulse point. Sherlock, by this point was pressing the rubber ball into his arm so hard his entire arm had turned a bluish colour. It hurt, but Sherlock wasn't about to ruin his plan by revealing his pulse to his distraught friend. It would simply make what he'd done pointless. Sherlock only relaxed his arm when John was dragged away from his body, a crowd of people surrounding him and shrouding John's view. Sherlock wanted to scream that he was alive, wanted to tell John that it had all been a trick and an awful illusion. But he couldn't, so instead he let an unseen tear slip from the corner of his eye._

* * *

Sherlock was startled from the memory by a sharp chime from deep within his coat pockets. He frowned and sighed wearily, his fingers snatching the device out of old habit. It was a text…from his brother. He knew that his brother was aware that he had faked his death but in all the time of Sherlock being "dead" the elder Holmes had only contacted him once. Sherlock had told him to only contact him again if John was in danger. Hence the solid lump forming in his throat at the sight of the new text.

_It's time to come home. I am afraid something has happened to John. You do have my sincerest apologies, brother. –MH. _

Sherlock blinked. His heart stopped in his chest and he swallowed. His trembling fingers typed out a quick reply.

_What, may I ask, are you apologising for? You said you'd keep him safe. You promised.- SH. _

_I know but I can't protect your blogger from everything. What has happened was an accident. John has been involved in a car collision. There was nothing I could do.- MH. _

_Then I suggest you find whoever hit him and you punish them severely. –SH._

_Yes. That problem has been dealt with. I can assure you the driver won't be seeing the light of day ever again.- MH._

_Thank you. And brother? Is John…you know?-SH._

_You are very welcome indeed. I presume the word you are searching for is "dead"? If so, I can assure you that John is still alive. The doctors have informed me that despite what has happened John is relatively unharmed. He has a few broken bones and he lost blood, but that is not what they are worried about. It is his head injury that he received that has them worried. – MH._

Unwanted tears pricked at Sherlock's eyes and he exhaled heavily. It was OK. John was OK. Everything was going to be fine. At least, that is what he told himself.

_Head injury?- SH._

_How severe is it?-SH._

_Be truthful.-SH. _

_Yes, John's head took the most brunt of the hit. It is pretty severe. They fear that he is brain damaged. They cannot say how badly brain damaged he is till he wakes from his coma. Worst case scenarios, he won't be able to do anything for himself and will need permanent care for the rest of his life, or he simply won't wake at all.- MH._

_And the best outcome that they can hope for?-SH._

_Memory loss. –MH._

Sherlock swallowed thickly and chewed on his bottom lip in worried thought.

_Do you think he'll remember me?-SH._

_There is no way to tell. And I would advise you to not visit him at all.- MH. _

_I have informed you of John's current situation so that you can come home and stop this ridiculous act. There is no need to hide away, brother. You may stay with me. If you see John, even for one second, you could ruin everything, so don't even think about it.- MH. _

_I'm willing to take that risk. I need to see him. Just to see how he is. Then I'll turn away from him and I shan't look back.- SH._

_Yes you will. You forget that I know you well, brother. If you go to see him you won't want to turn away. You'll want to go back to your old life. I'm afraid that simply isn't possible. Heed my warning when I say you will only cause more pain and hurt by turning up at his hospital bedside. If he does remember you then the truth about you lying and deceiving him for all this time will simply crush him. And if he doesn't remember you then you are the one who will end up crushed. And if he doesn't wake at all then I am certain you will do something reckless. –MH. _

_My heart was crushed a long time ago. I am certain that it can't retain any further damage. –SH._

The organ beating in his chest told Sherlock that those words were lies. There was always more damage that could be inflicted on his poor bleeding heart.

* * *

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat as his pale blue eyes came to rest on John's fragile form. His friend looked strikingly pale, even against the white hospital bed linen. And he looked frail. More frail than Sherlock had ever seen him. His heart clenched painfully in his chest as he approached John's bedside. "Oh God…" He choked out, the walls of his throat closing up.

His eyes scanned John quickly, taking in all of his injuries. Broken arm – luckily not the one he used to fire a gun with- John would be furious if that were the case. Fractured ribs- at least four of them. Possible bruising on the chest- hard to tell with the sheets pulled up so high. And yes- a very evident head injury going by the thick bandage wrapped around John's skull. He looked like he was in a deep sleep and in a way Sherlock supposed he was. A very deep sleep. One that he might not wake up from.

Sherlock shuddered, his body taught with anger, and his mind keen on the idea of revenge. If his brother hadn't assured him the person who'd run John over had been dealt with then Sherlock was certain he'd be hunting them down single handily.

He took a deep breath to steady himself. Perhaps he should have heeded his brother's warning. He shouldn't have come because now he never wanted to leave John's side. He wanted to curl up on the hospital bed with the sleeping man and he wanted to wrap him up in arms and never let go. He wanted to hug him, to apologise a thousand times, to beg for forgiveness, to protect him from any more pain. He didn't do any of those things. Instead he reached out his hand and tentatively took hold of John's, frowning at how cold and clammy the sleeping man's hand was.

He smoothed his thumb over John's knuckles and a small smile spread across his tired face.

"They say that coma patients can sometimes hear you, that it helps to talk to them. I hope for both our sakes that you don't hear what I'm about to say, because that could lead to some rather embarrassing discussions later, and you'll probably punch me, not that I don't deserve to be punched. Because I do, after all I've put you through, and the countless number of lies I told you."

Sherlock swallowed thickly as John's still form remained completely motionless. He knew he was getting his hopes up, thinking John would simply wake up just because he was talking to him. Perhaps it was completely pointless, maybe John couldn't hear him at all. It was just a lie that doctors told people to stop them from losing faith, to keep them thinking that their loved ones would come back to them. Even if that were the case Sherlock wasn't prepared to come to the terms with the fact that John might not wake up. He couldn't bring himself to think that the last words he spoke to his friend were dishonest and brutal lies. Instead he steadied himself and continued to speak softly to John, hoping that even if John didn't wake up that he could hear him. Because Sherlock was spilling the truth. No more lies. The honest truth.

"If you can hear me, then I need you to know that it was never my intention to hurt you. Not like this. But I had no other choice. I wanted to prove to myself that your words weren't true, that I wasn't a machine, so I sacrificed everything I had just so you, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade could go on living. I can't imagine what you've been through over these past few years but I know if it's anything like I've experienced you've been through hell. I've faced many of my demons over the years, and I've been fighting a war all on my own. I never really understood what it was like to be a soldier. I never asked you about it, because all I had to do was look into your eyes. Your eyes, at least as I remember them, were perhaps the kindest yet most haunted eyes I'd seen. I wonder what my eyes look like now, whether they are just as haunted, because I've seen things that I will never be able to erase from my memory, horrible and terrifying things . I know that I have changed. Perhaps it is for the better. Or maybe this experience has made me even less tolerable than before. But you'll never find out if don't wake up, so stop being an idiot, and just…just be ok…for me…can you do that?"

Sherlock stared at John's hand and gave it a firm squeeze. He searched his friend endlessly for a sign of life, but he found none. There wasn't a twitch or a flicker. There was nothing. He sighed and shook his head, his emotions pressing down on him so hard that it physically hurt. His throat was burning, his lips drier than sandpaper, and his eyes heavy and hot with tears. "Ok. The silent treatment. You don't feel like talking right now. I've been an idiot, so that's perfectly understandable. But you know what?" He asked softly, a deep sadness filling his voice. "I'm going to sit here till you do feel like talking. You can shout at me, if you like. Scream at me even. Just…wake up…please…for me?" He dragged up a chair by John's bedside and sat down. He gave John's hand another tight squeeze and bowed his head, closing to his eyes, willing John to be ok.

* * *

**I'm not one of those people that will hold you at virtual gun point if you don't leave a review. But I do love receiving them. They make me feel good about myself, and they make writing for you guys worthwhile. **

**Thank you. **

**~ InvisibleBlade **


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 **

Greg was trying to fill out a steadily growing pile of paper work, but that task was becoming harder to concentrate on as he continued to listen to the mad ramblings coming from Anderson's mouth. The poor man had lost his mind.

He glanced up at Anderson and sighed sadly. A long time ago they'd been teammates. He'd found Anderson a little annoying, and frankly the man was, or had been an outrageous bully towards Sherlock. But Greg hadn't wanted this…hadn't wanted the man to lose everything he'd ever worked for.

Anderson had been fired almost immediately after…the fall incident…on the account of incompetence. The boy from the kidnapping incident had told them everything they needed to know, even about how he and his sister had been told by their kidnapper to scream if they saw the great detective or their daddy would be killed.

Back then Greg had been furious at himself, and even more furious at Anderson and Donovan. He'd been angry at Donavon and Anderson because they'd been the ones to plant the seed of doubt into his mind. He'd made sure that they were both fired on the spot. The anger aimed at himself was because he hadn't stood up for Sherlock, even though he'd known deep down that the detective was nowhere near being a kidnapper. The man was…had been a genius. If only Greg hadn't doubted him. He'd still be here, probably yelling out deductions, or telling Anderson to shut the hell up because his stupidity wasn't needed.

A sad smile made an appearance on Greg's face because he could just picture the argument now, because the garbage coming from Anderson's mouth was completely idiotic. It was quite unnerving too.

Anderson was blurting out rumours about a figure sat by John Watson's bedside, like a guardian angel watching over him. Rumour had it that the man resembled the world's only consulting detective. There was only one problem with that. Sherlock Holmes was dead. He'd committed suicide. And yet that did not stop the stories or the endless gossip on twitter, Facebook, and Tumblr, and other social networking sites. It made Greg's stomach twist and turn into knots. The fact that Anderson believed every word, that he was utterly convinced that Sherlock was alive, well, that just made things so much worse. Because why would a man who'd previously hated Sherlock dig his feet in so hard when it came to this? Why would he even care? Guilt? Perhaps. Or maybe it was something else.

Anderson was shoving his mobile in Greg's face now. He was screaming by now. To Greg's ears it sounded like the squawks of a distressed bird. The insane man was thumping his fists on the desk, his eyes wild and panicked, and just down right deranged.

"Alright!" Greg snapped, to stop Anderson's awful screeching if nothing else. "I'll go check it out. Just get the hell out of my office."

Anderson swallowed and nodded, though his eyes remained wide and glazed over with a clear sheen of madness. The man quickly retreated like a dog, his tail between his legs and his head bowed.

Greg sighed loudly and ran a weary hand over his face. It was time he made a trip to Bart's.

* * *

When Greg reached John's room it finally hit him. He hadn't talked to John in almost a year. After Sherlock's death things had been pretty rough with them. They remained civil for a while, tried to drown their sorrows at a pub every Wednesday together, but soon they'd drifted apart completely.

That hadn't been Greg's fault, well, not entirely. He'd tried to keep their friendship. He hadn't wanted to leave John to struggle and grieve alone. He knew better than most people that grief was one of the biggest killers. And yet John hadn't made it easy. The poor, broken man had isolated himself from the whole world. He'd pushed everyone who cared away and like a coward Greg had backed away. He hadn't even sent a text over the course of a year! And now the good doctor was lying in a hospital bed and still Greg hadn't made any time to pay him a visit.

Saying that Greg felt guilty was a huge understatement. He almost felt responsible for John's current state. The witness statement reported that though the driver who'd hit John had been both drunk and speeding, John had walked straight out onto the road without looking. Greg had briefly brought himself to watch the CCTV footage of the accident. From what he'd seen John had been trying to commit suicide. He had walked out onto that busy road on purpose. Except, like most suicide attempts, the plan had fallen through. Instead of killing himself John had merely turned himself into a vegetable. Greg swallowed. John must have been in so much pain to have taken such an action. He probably needed a friend to reach out to him. Greg should have been that friend.

With a shake of his head he pushed the door open, a soft sound escaping his lips as he did so. For a moment he'd hoped the rumours were true, had wished Sherlock was sitting by John's bedside. But he wasn't. Of course he wasn't. The dead stayed dead.

He slowly wondered over to the hospital bed, sighing sadly as he took in the sight of the man laid out on it. He didn't really know what to say, or what to feel. John had been a good man. He didn't deserve a fate such as this. No one deserved to be in a coma. He swallowed thickly, his mouth running dry as he tried to think of something to say, something that would make things better. But there was nothing that Greg could say, because nothing would turn back time.

"I'm sorry it had end this way, mate."

He finally dragged the words from his dry lips. As he did so he heard dull and heavy footsteps coming directly from behind him. The footsteps sounded ominous and with each echo of a boot hitting the floor Greg felt his heart skip. Not in fright. It took a lot to shake Greg up. In his line of work you had to be tough. No. His heart raced out of excitement. Something was about to happen, the DI could tell. Something amazing. Something impossible. The footsteps were closing in on him now, getting louder and louder all the time. The hairs on Greg's body stood up on end and his skin rippled with goosebumps. He felt his muscles tense as another presence joined him. There was hot breath on the back of his neck now. His body tensed further. He didn't know what was happening or what he should do.

"Who says that anything has ended, Inspector?"

The deep baritone vibrated from behind Greg and he swallowed. The rich voice filled him with a very dangerous emotion. Hope. Because Greg hadn't heard that voice for years. Oh, that impossible, impossible voice. It couldn't be. It just couldn't. That voice shouldn't exist, but yet Greg knew what he had heard. _Perhaps I'm hearing voices now?_ He thought to himself with a sad smile. _Voices that belong to the dead._

"If I turn around are you going to be there, or are you going to disappear?" He asked softly.

There was a chuckle. A deep and almost mirthful sound. It made Greg want to laugh to; something he hadn't felt like doing since Sherlock's death.

"I can assure you that I'll be here. I don't plan on disappearing ever again."

Greg spun on the spot then, despite every instinct telling him that that voice was impossible. His instincts were clearly out of date as he came face to face with a the voice's owner. A breathy gasp left his mouth and he blinked. "Sh-er-" He swallowed as he tried to get his head around the fact that Sherlock was indeed alive.

"Sherlock." The younger man supplied, raising a thick eyebrow. "Surely you haven't forgotten my name already, Lestrade. Dear me, have you become senile over the years I've been gone?"

Greg frowned and shook his head. He was in complete and utter disbelief. He took a step back, mouth gaped wide open. He studied Sherlock carefully and slowly circled him, occasionally poking with an inquiring finger. "You're real." He mumbled after a while. "You're really...real."

"My, my, Lestrade, I see that your deduction skills have reached a whole new level. At last! Progress!"

For that last remark Sherlock received a forceful slap across the chest. The action from Greg completely took Sherlock by surprise and he stumbled back. He just about managed to steady himself.

"Do you think this is a joke?" He hissed under his breath, his brow furrowed in a scowl. "Sherlock, I don't know what game you're playing but-"

"But what?" Sherlock snapped, his features moulding into a similar scowl.

Greg groaned and fisted a hand through his silver mop of hair. "You're as difficult as the day I met you."

"That's me summed up in one word. Difficult."

Greg snorted. "Difficult is an understatement I think."

Both men moved so that they were looking directly at each other. Slowly but surely their scowls were replaced by small smiles and in a spontaneous moment Greg lunged forward and pulled Sherlock into the tightest of hugs, the man grunting in discomfort but allowing the sentimental act to happen never the less. After a few moments Greg pulled away. The frown from earlier had made a reappearance and he looked even more hopelessly confused.

"Explain yourself." He said calmly, his voice serious. "The whole world saw you fall, Sherlock. John saw you die with his own eyes. I was at your funeral. I saw them lower your body into the ground. I watched as John broke bit by bit, because he honestly thought that at any moment you'd walk through the door. He thought you were alive and he was right, so explain to me this, Sherlock Holmes. Why did you let the ones who cared about you suffer? Why did you fake your death, and why wait till John is in a bloody coma to rise from the dead? It just doesn't make sense to me. Perhaps you didn't think much of it. Because, sentiment, right? You don't care about anyone but yourself. You selfish git! How could you have done something so reckless?!"

Sherlock's face went from being a pale cream colour to a shade of red, then to an even deeper shade of purple. His lips pursed together and he looked exactly like a volcano about to erupt. Greg paused and swallowed, because Sherlock was always so unpredictable when he was angry. Greg had pushed Sherlock too far. He watched as Sherlock's features scrunched up further. Then the explosion came.

"Enough! Shut up! Just shut up!" Sherlock screeched out his furious words, his eyes turning a deadly blue as he continued to shout and roar and scream. His nostrils were flaring. Greg had never seen him so worked up before. It was quite frightening, actually. He took a step back and just allowed the younger man to shout, because he obviously needed to vent badly, and better it be him than some poor and helpless nurse.

Greg watched in shock as Sherlock became a rambling mess. The man had gone far past being coherent. He was shaking, foaming at the mouth with sheer rage, and never had Greg seen a man's eyes go so wide with fury. The small snip bits that Greg caught of what Sherlock was saying sent his soul cold. He certainly wished that he hadn't shouted at Sherlock, because what he was witnessing now was both horrifying and heart-breaking. Greg just stood there, choking up as Sherlock began to go into greater detail of his time away. He slowly reached out to the distraught man and he shushed him softly, because if Sherlock didn't calm down soon he'd probably do himself damage. "So you…you…you sacrificed yourself…for me?" He asked gently.

Sherlock was still shaking violently but his face had dropped into a calmer expression at least. He nodded and wiped at his mouth where layers of spit had formed. "Not just for you. For Mrs Hudson. And…" He turned his head to where John was still unconscious, completely unaware of everything around him. " for him too."

There was a flicker of emotion on Sherlock's face. It was only there briefly but it was there. Greg felt his heart clench and he sighed, turning to look at John too. "You should have come back. Maybe we wouldn't be here if you had."

"I couldn't come back."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "You're back now, aren't you? What's so different now?"

"I'm back now because the danger has passed, so to speak. My brother texted me as soon as John was emitted into hospital. I knew I had to see him, knew it was time to stop being dead. Ever since I came to my senses I've had this horrible aching sensation in my heart…and my stomach is constantly twisted into a knot…" Sherlock looked so confused that Greg almost laughed, but the situation was far too serious to call for such things as laughter.

"You feel guilty." Greg stated softly.

Sherlock nodded. He walked over to John's bedside and he grasped hold of the sleeping man's hand. "I know what the emotion is called, Lestrade." He said bitterly. "It's just, until now, I haven't exactly experienced guilt myself. Not like this at least. It's eating away at me and the only thing I think will fix it is John's forgiveness. My biggest worry is that John won't wake up. If that's the case I'll never be able to redeem myself. Even if he does wake up there's no certain way of knowing if I'll receive his forgiveness. I don't deserve it."

Greg frowned. "But what you did…Sherlock…that was amazing."

"Hardly." Sherlock sniffled. "It was just me showing off, trying to be clever as always."

"Yes. You were clever, a genius. But what you did wasn't you showing off, it was you caring. You chose us three over yourself. You could have let Moriarty kill us, but you didn't. I think that John would be proud of you if he was awake right now. Of course he'll be pissed off at you, but who wouldn't be? But he'd definitely be proud of you. You know why? Because what you did was so bloody human, Sherlock. I sometimes wondered if you even knew what it meant to be human, but not John. He saw that part of you from day one, even when everyone else thought the only thing you cared about was dead bodies and solving the next murder."

Sherlock looked down at John sadly and gave his hand a tight squeeze. " That's not true." He whispered. "I do care. I just have an incredibly strange way of showing it…" Greg frowned as Sherlock paused and his eyes rounded to the size of saucepans.

"What? What is it? Sherlock?"

A defeated sound escaped the frozen man. "It's nothing. For a moment there I could have sworn John squeezed my hand back."

Greg's eyes darted down to John's hand and he stared at it long and hard. At first there was nothing but then there was a tiny almost non-existent movement. It was just a twitch, barely noticeable really, but it had definitely happened going by the way Sherlock was acting. A more joyful sound escaped the back of Sherlock's throat and he leapt into action, hitting the nurse call button, an insane grin cracking his features.

John Watson was waking up.

* * *

**John is waking up!**

**So, how did you enjoy chapter two?**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 **

At first Sherlock had been filled with happiness and hope like a hot air balloon, his mind giddy with the knowledge that John was finally waking up. He should have known better. Should have known that a head injury such as John's would have its consequences.

John was awake now. He was confused and disorientated but other than that he looked quite good, for someone who had just woken up from a coma anyway.

Sherlock waited for the hospital staff to filter out, till it was just himself and John. He stepped out of the corner he'd been hiding in and cautiously approached John's bedside. He expected some sort of reaction but he received nothing more than a rather blank look from the older man. "John," He started, clearing his throat nervously.

John blinked, his face remaining passive. "I'm sorry. Do I know you? Are you a medical student? You look the type. "

Sherlock's balloon of happiness and hope popped in that moment. He felt something deep inside of him shatter. John didn't remember him? Not even a little bit. He had been warned that memory loss was a big likelihood but until now it hadn't really considered the enormity of the situation. All his time with John wiped like it was nothing…it was just too much to bear.

Screams echoed out in his mind but he somehow refrained himself from actually screaming. It would do neither himself nor John any good. Instead he shook his head and composed himself enough to ask a simple question.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

He studied John with baited breath, hoping upon hope that something would click in his friends mind, that he would remember their first meeting. There was a brief look of bewilderment in John's eyes and for a moment Sherlock was almost certain he'd been successful in triggering a memory. But after a few moments it seemed his friends shock turned into anger and a vibrant fear.

"Look, I don't know who you think you are, but the answer to that question is none of your bloody business."

Sherlock swallowed down hard. This wasn't how the conversation was supposed to go at all. What had he done wrong? Any other person looking at John's death glare would have simply dropped the subject. But not Sherlock. He was desperate to get his friend back. So he pressed the subject further.

"I'd say Afghanistan."

John's eyes were black and fuming now. Sherlock was prepared for pretty much any response John had to throw at him and yet he could not have predicted the two painful words that left John's mouth next.

"Piss off."

Sherlock blinked, hardly believing his ears. "Excuse me?" He asked, his voice breaking around the question.

"Are you deaf?" John said through gritted teeth. "I said piss off. It's none of your business. I've just woken up from a coma, and I don't particularly feel in the mood to retell old war stories."

Sherlock nodded and then respectively left the room. He managed to stay strong for a few miles down the hospital corridor but then he broke. Because John didn't remember him and this was all so very, very wrong. John was supposed to be different. He was supposed to be his friend. His best friend. He was the one person who hadn't told him to piss off, who hadn't called him a freak. That's why Sherlock had become so attached to John, why he'd allowed John into his heart, why he had sacrificed everything. It was because John cared about him. Or at least he had. John had accepted Sherlock for who he really was, showered him with praise, and had always told how truly brilliant he was.

Right now Sherlock didn't feel brilliant. He felt awful. His emotions were tugging his heart strings painfully, he could barely breathe. He managed to lean himself against a wall to steady himself. He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. Then he began to cry ugly tears, the fat droplets forcing their way past his closed lids.

He thought back to the time where he and John were flatmates, fighting crime together. They'd made quite a team. Sherlock had been the brain and John had been the heart. Oh, what an odd pair they had made. A sociopathic genius and an ex-army doctor looking for adventure. Sherlock had offered John the adrenaline rushes he had been craving, and in turn John had given him the best gift of all. Companionship. For a long time Sherlock had been a lonely little boy, shouting at the world because it was better to seem cold and indifferent than alone and broken. John had made that feeling go away, had filled up the loneliness, had put bandages over Sherlock's emotional scars.

Right now Sherlock was just a lonely little boy again, crying because he just didn't know what to do. He hated himself. Hated the world. Hated the person who had caused John's head injury. He even hated John a little because it wasn't fair that Sherlock was the only one to remember their time together.

He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes reluctantly and turned to see who it was. It was Lestrade. Ah yes. He'd forgotten about him. "Yes?" He choked out, his voice pathetically small.

"Are you ok, mate?" Greg asked softly.

"Do I look ok?!" Sherlock snapped back. He wiped at his eyes and sniffled in disgust when the back of hand became dampened with his fallen tears.

"I talked with one of the doctors. They said John has some trouble remembering things. Does that mean that…"

"That he can't remember me. Yes."

"Oh. I'm…I'm sorry."

Sherlock added Greg onto the things he hated. The D.I looked sympathetic and his words were so sweet and sincere that they made Sherlock want to vomit. He didn't need sympathy. Right now he needed a strong coffee and a cigarette.

He thumped his fist against the wall and stormed out of the hospital, leaving behind a completely exasperated Greg.

* * *

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	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 **

Sherlock lightly rapped his fist on the door of his old home and swallowed nervously, faking a smile so that John couldn't see how anxious he was. When the door opened with a familiar creak Sherlock felt his heart leap from his chest. He didn't know where to look, what to do, how to act. His mind went blank.

Mrs Hudson stood there with a big grin on her face. Sherlock noted that her face was a mask. That grin was forced. Someone had pre warned her of his return. _Probably Mycroft. The interfering git._ Though p_erhaps in this case he's done me a favour. After all. If Mrs Hudson can keep up her act then John won't find out the truth. _

"Hello." He said quietly, his voice breaking in several places. He stepped inside and embraced Mrs Hudson in a tight hug, sniffling like a small child as she hugged him just as hard back. The hug was definitely genuine. It caused a warm emotion to wash over him. _Sentiment, _Sherlock realised.

The hug lasted for several minutes and when they parted from each other they both had tears shining in their eyes. Sherlock smiled weakly at her and stepped further inside to allow room for John to enter. When he did the man looked rather confused.

"It's just been a while since we've seen each other." Sherlock explained. "Hasn't it, Mrs Hudson?"

"Oh yes, dear. " She sniffled. "You've been away from 221B for far too long." Her words were obviously meant to scold him but they held no bite. Mrs Hudson just sounded so very sad and broken.

Sherlock's gut twisted painfully. He really had put the ones he cared about through so much. _But, _Sherlock thought logically, _ They were better off sad and grieving than dead. _

"May we have a cup of tea?" Sherlock asked her softly.

Mrs Hudson nodded and began to make her way up to 221B. "Ok. But just this once though, dear. I'm your landlady. Not your housekeeper."

Sherlock chuckled to himself when he heard Mrs Hudson's oh so familiar words. Things felt like they were slipping back into some form of normality. But things weren't normal, were they? John had no recollection of their time together. He was going to have to lie to John every second of every day. He had to protect him from the truth. He couldn't allow his friend to get hurt again.

When Sherlock stepped foot in the flat he blinked in shock. Because the flat was almost exactly the same as he'd left it. His experiments had been tidied away, but his scientific equipment was still littered about the place. Hadn't Mrs Hudson told John that she was going to give his equipment away to a school? Perhaps she'd kept them for sentimental purposes. His skull was still resting in its rightful place. There was still that awful stain in the carpet from an experiment gone wrong. There was even a newspaper that John had been reading the day before Sherlock's world had broken. The Cluedo was pinned to the wall with a sharp knife still. The smiley face and the bullets in the wall had surprisingly been left too. Perhaps Mrs Hudson hadn't been able to bring herself to fix it.

To him 221B was a constant reminder of the past, of his time with John. He could picture everything from the arguments that had gone on between them, to the peaceful silences that followed after they'd solved another case, to the long discussions they used to have over boxes of take away.

Just by looking at John Sherlock could see that his eyes were taking in the flat for the very first time. He had no recollection of their arguments, their discussions, their wonderful life of solving crime, of being a perfect yet odd team. That hurt a lot more than Sherlock liked to admit.

He'd thought that once he'd gotten John back that the his emotional scars would start to heal. Instead he just felt old wounds reopen. What was the use of having all those memories when the other person couldn't remember them too? It just wasn't fair.

"You'll have to excuse me." Sherlock whispered, quickly turning on his heel and running up the stairs to John's old room. When he reached it he leapt onto the bed and buried his face in one of the pillows, inhaling deeply and sobbing softly as he managed to smell a faint whiff of the old John.

He knew it was ridiculous. The man downstairs was still John. But…he wasn't Sherlock's John. He just wanted his friend back! Was that so much to ask of the universe?!

His chest felt tight with confliction. On one hand he wanted nothing more than for John to remember. Because yes he would be very angry and hurt but he would be Sherlock's John again. They would share each other's memories again. But what if John didn't want to know him anymore? No. No! That was a horrible thought.

At least now John wanted to be in his company. The John downstairs didn't hate him. Things were good. More than good actually. Why was he behaving like an emotional teenage girl?

He picked himself up from the bed and wiped at his eyes. "Stop being such an idiot Sherlock Holmes." He grumbled to himself. He made himself look as presentable as possible, though it was obvious he'd been crying because his eyes were slightly red and puffy.

If John and Mrs Hudson noticed they didn't say anything. John was sat in his usual seat and Sherlock smiled as he took his own seat. Mrs Hudson handed him a cup of tea and he smiled in appreciation, sipping at the hot beverage, humming as the heavenly drink slipped down his throat and settled in his stomach.

"You'll be having the upstairs room. My room is the downstairs one. I don't sleep much so don't be alarmed if you hear me pottering down here at night. I sometimes play the violin too, but I assure you that I'm one of the better violinists, so I hope my music soothes you more than anything. Any questions?"

John sipped at his tea and frowned. "Yes. I do have one."

"Oh?" Sherlock covered up his anxiety by taking a rather big gulp of tea, the liquid moving down his throat so fast it burnt him a little. The pain was a pleasant distraction.

"Who are you?"

Sherlock frowned, puzzled. "Who am I? I told you who I am, John. I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes," John rolled his eyes. "I know that. But _who_ are you, Sherlock? Because I just have this feeling that I know you. I might have suffered brain damage but that doesn't make me bone dead stupid. I've met you before. I know I have. I feel like you're the important piece to a jigsaw puzzle. I just don't know what I'm trying to solve yet."

Sherlock's frown deepened and he swallowed. "I can assure you that we have not met before. The only reason I was at the hospital was because I was interested in your brain injury. Your case is somehow different to other cases of brain injuries out there." The lie was a terrible one but John seemed to buy it. "And I am certainly not important, I can assure you of that."

John tilted his head slightly. He looked a little like a kitten observing something new. It was a very amusing sight indeed. But before Sherlock could laugh John's words stopped him dead in his tracks. "That's not true. I can't possibly believe that. You must be important to someone."

Sherlock's heart ached and he blinked away a fresh set of tears threatening to burst free. He'd had more than enough crying today. "I'm really not, you know."

John reached forward, his eyes big and sympathetic. "You're important to me."

Sherlock blinked. "You barely know me."

"No. But I like to think I'm a good judge of people. And when I look at you all I see is a big heart."

Sherlock huffed a laugh. "And that makes me important?"

"Yeh." John smiled. "It does."

Sherlock sighed happily and settled down further in his chair, taking a small sip of his tea. "Thank you." He whispered, the corners of his lips tugged upwards.

"You're welcome."

Sherlock watched as John settled down and closed his eyes. He was obviously exhausted.

"If you're tired you should rest."

"Mmm." John hummed sleepily. "Ok. A quick nap can't hurt."

He stood to his feet, yawned, and stretched out his arms. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John." He watched as John slowly ascended the stairs and sighed in relief when he heard the gentle thud of the upstairs bedroom door.

He stood to his feet when Mrs Hudson made an appearance. He licked his lips and exhaled. "Mrs Hudson…I gather I have a lot of explaining to do. I..."

Mrs Hudson shook her head sadly and placed both of her hands on his face. "You have nothing to explain. Your brother told me everything. I'm just glad you've finally made your way back home." She kissed him gently on the cheek and sighed. "You should hit the hay too. You look completely worn out."

"Yeh…" Sherlock swallowed. "I haven't had a good sleep for…for a long time."

Mrs Hudson nodded in understanding. "It's ok. You can rest now. You're safe and you're home."

"Yes. You're right. I should probably try to get some actual sleep. And Mrs Hudson? About John?"

"I won't tell him anything, dear. I promise. I understand what you're trying to do. I just hope this doesn't backfire on you."

Sherlock sighed wearily. "I hope that too. I'd hate for him to resent me."

"I highly doubt that John could ever resent you." Mrs Hudson said softly. "It just isn't in his nature to hold grudges for long."

Sherlock wished that he could believe those words, but he didn't. If John remembered then there was no doubt in his mind that John would hate him.

He nodded slowly. "Well, goodnight." He said, firmly finishing the conversation and turning on his heel, retreating to his room.

Mrs Hudson merely shook her head. It was heart-breaking seeing Sherlock like this. What was she going to do with her boys?

Sherlock immediately collapsed on the bed and pulled the warm covers around him, not even bothering to take off his coat and shoes. He curled up in a small ball beneath his sheets just as his phone chimed. He fumbled for his phone and glared at the small black text on the screen.

_Are you sure you're doing the right thing?-MH._

An icy cold tear slipped out from the corner of his eye and he shoved his mobile back into his pocket. The truth was Sherlock really didn't know whether what he was doing was right or wrong anymore. He cried himself to sleep that night. He was in a warm bed, he was home, but there was still a massive gaping hole in his life that needed to be filled.

* * *

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	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

That first few months were the hardest and most challenging.

* * *

**Day 1**

Sherlock woke up from his first peaceful night's sleep with a start. Something or someone had woken him up. He sat up and blinked blearily, the first shining rays of sunshine reaching out and caressing his skin. He strained his ears to try and figure out what had awoken him. He froze when he heard the ugly sobs coming from close by. They were awful, screeching sounds.

They were too deep to belong to Mrs Hudson. Besides it was a Thursday and Mrs Hudson always went out on Thursdays. He leapt into action, springing from the bed and running out the room. He decided that by the sound of the crying John was most definitely in the bathroom. When he reached the bathroom he found the door to be locked. He tried the handle several times and rapped on the door. "John? John? Are you ok? John?"

Sherlock placed his ear against the door and sighed softly when he heard John's struggle to stop crying.

"Just leave me alone, ok Sherlock? I'm fine."

"Clearly. Is that why you sound like an animal dying?"

There was a breathy chuckle from the other side of the door and John opened it, popping his head round the corner. "Do I really sound that bad?"

"I'm afraid so, yes. You sound even worse than next doors cat." He wasn't going to mention that he'd accidentally killed said cat. Instead he just smiled warmly at John. "Now. What's wrong, hmm?"

John swallowed and a look of deep shame crossed his features in the form of a blush. But what could John possibly be ashamed of? When John turned Sherlock knew that he was supposed to be searching for something, but he wasn't sure what. There was just John's scar…oh.

"You don't remember getting that?"

"No."

John's scar was deep and jagged and raw. The first time Sherlock had seen it he'd been shocked. It took a lot to shock Sherlock but the fact that someone so calm, kind and down to Earth had…gone through all that pain. It was heart-breaking and unbelievable. It still was. Sherlock had slowly grown used to the wound on John's shoulder, seeing it as part of who John was, rather than a disturbing mark on his friend's skin. But obviously for John, in this moment at least, it was the first time he was seeing the scar.

"I've had this terrible ache in my shoulder for days…I thought that I'd just slept funny on it. Then this morning, after my shower I realised that I could do with a good shave. It's the first time I've looked in a mirror since the accident. And…and…and."

"It's ok."Sherlock hushed him softly. "You were shot. It's an old injury. It's been there for years. And it makes you no less of a soldier."

John turned around and gave him a quizzical look. "How do you know so much about me?" He questioned.

"Medical files." Sherlock lied swiftly.

John nodded. That had been a close one.

Sherlock reached out a hand and placed it on John's scar gently. "This? You see this. It's not ugly, it is beautiful. You know why?"

John shook his head. "Why?"

"Because it shows just how strong you are. If you can overcome that. You can overcome anything."

John blinked and a small grin cracked his face. "I suppose when you put it like that it isn't so bad. I just wish I could remember."

Sherlock was quick to shake his head. "Some things are better left forgotten. What's the point of searching for the past when it's the present that counts?"

"Because without the past I don't know who I am."

Sherlock swallowed thickly. "You're wonderful. That's all you need to know.

* * *

**1 month**

Sherlock had it all planned out to the precise letter. He made sure John was kept in the dark about their past. It was a difficult task of course, but so far he'd managed it. He had made sure to take down John's old blog. In fact he'd gotten his brother to completely erase any trace of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. He was hoping dearly that the world would simply forget about them. He wasn't so lucky however. People were still talking, still gossiping about the duo. It meant that Sherlock had to keep John as far away from human contact as possible.

Every day the morning newspaper would mysteriously disappear (thanks to Mrs Hudson being in on Sherlock's plan.) The Television had been destroyed in one of Sherlock's 'experiments'. Whenever they needed groceries Sherlock offered to go instead of John. It was ironic considering that Sherlock had all but refused to get even the simplest things from the shops before the fall. Things were different now though. He couldn't let John go out shopping. God forbid if someone recognised him and blabbed out the truth. No. He wasn't going to risk it. Right now he was happy. John was happy. If John remembered then everything would fall apart. Sherlock was desperately trying to prevent that from happening.

**Two months**

At two months the nightmares started.

John's nightmares were those belonging to a man tortured by days gone by. They always consisted of him walking amongst dead bodies. They were the bodies of all the good men John had witnessed die when he'd been in the army. Then there was Sherlock.

The younger man was always there too –another dead body thrown onto the pile- broken - twisted - blood pouring from his skull.

In his dreams John would always try to save Sherlock, even though he knew perfectly well from the dull and glassy look in his eyes that he was too far gone to save. That didn't stop him from trying though.

He'd run full pelt at the body, hopeful , each step more urgent than the previous. But then a man would stop him. A cruel looking man with a wicked grin. Every time the man appears John simply freezes with fear, his whole body going completely ridged.

The man carries around a small pocket knife with him. That knife is always used to carve a large M into Sherlock's face. Despite wanting to scream he's forced to remain silent. When the letter M is a bleeding sign on Sherlock's pale skin the man disappears. A thousand spiders take his place and they crawl over Sherlock's bloodied body.

Then John wakes up with a scream.

It's the same. Always the bloody same. His dreams have to mean something, but what?

Sherlock is fighting his own demons- his own awful nightmares. There isn't much in his dreams. Just two repeating words.

"You machine."

Sherlock is terrified that John will remember. Terrified that one day John will aim those two words at him again with the same bitter anger.

* * *

**Four months**

At four months John's limp came back with a vengeance and his hands shook so badly they were all but rendered useless. Sherlock took this as a very, very bad sign. Perhaps John was starting to remember if his body was showing the same signs as it had when Sherlock and John had first met.

He tried to distract him. They played card games but that usually ended in disaster. Apparently hiding cards from the pack was a form of cheating. John was insistent that twister wasn't really a game when only Sherlock could play. According to John it shouldn't be possible for a human body to be as flexible as Sherlock's anyway. And Cluedo was no better.

"The victim can't have done it! That's not how it works, Sherlock! It's against the rules."

"The rules are wrong!"

That put an end to that game.

In the end Sherlock knew deep down what he had to do. He had to get them a case. The adrenaline, the adventure, the thrill of trying to solve a puzzle. That's what John needed. Even if it meant risking John remembering. If he didn't do something fast then John's PTSD symptoms were only going to worsen.

_I need a case. –SH._

_I thought you'd never ask. We've got a bit of a weird one at the moment. It looks right up your street.-GL._

_Brilliant. I'll be there as soon as possible.-SH._

* * *

**6 months**

At six months Sherlock had started to solve cases with John again. Though he made sure he was always very cautious when doing so. He was still at risk of someone recognising him.

John's limp was gone and his hand barely shook anymore. Things were good. It felt like old times.

They were currently stood over a dead body, as per usual of course.

"It was the brother. Of course. He killed her because he wanted to take all of the money for himself." Sherlock clapped his hands together in glee. Another case solved.

"That's fantastic." John grinned.

"Do you know you said that out loud?" Sherlock asked softly.

"Oh. Um. Sorry. Do you want me to stop?"

"No. No. It's ok. It's fine…" Sherlock smiled at John.

He would never tire of John's voice.

"You really are brilliant, you know.

_No, I'm really not. If only you knew how selfish I've been._

* * *

**Twelve months**

Twelve months had passed by in a blink of an eye. It was funny how time seemed to fly by when he was with John.

Sherlock's plan was working. John still couldn't remember their time together and their friendship has been renewed.

Christmas changed everything.

Christmas at 221B was a strange time. Sherlock had forgotten that. It consisted of himself, John, and Mrs Hudson. They mad a beautifully odd trio. They were a makeshift family. Sherlock couldn't have asked for more. He was content here, playing familiar Christmas carols whilst he looked out at the snowy view. It was a white Christmas. It was exactly like…the first Christmas he'd spent with John.

He stopped the flow of his music to turn to watch John and Mrs Watson with a warm smile. They were laughing, talking about something trivial, but it was so good to be in the company of his friends once that he just allowed himself to get swept away by their words.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked when someone broke him from his reverie. It was Molly. He blinked and swallowed. The woman looked pale and shaken up. Oh. Molly. He'd completely forgotten to pay her a visit.

"Hello, Molly Hooper." He said softly. "It's been a while." He leaned in closer and lowered his voice so that only Molly would be able to hear. "I never thanked you. So here goes nothing. Thank you Molly Hooper. You do count. You count so much. " He pulled back and gave Molly one of his charming smiles. The kind of smile that meant his nose crinkled in the three places. The smile that he'd used so often to manipulate Molly with his charm. It still worked like magic. She swooned, blushed a vibrant red, and excused herself to the other side of the room. Mrs Hudson soon engaged in conversation with her.

Sherlock turned when he felt another presence in the room. He had to double take when he saw Mycroft leaning against the doorway. It had been a long time since Mycroft and Sherlock had been in the same room together at Christmas. "Mycroft?"

Mycroft silently crossed the room to Sherlock and handed him a present. It was rectangular and it was wrapped in pirate wrapping paper. There seemed to be a genuine smile on his brother's face. Sherlock felt deeply suspicious about that fact. "What is it?"

"It is a Christmas present."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I can see that. But _What _is it?"

"Open it up and see." Mycroft said gently.

Sherlock's long and dexterous fingers scrambled to open the present, tearing at the paper. When he revealed what was inside he frowned. "Photographs? I don't understand."

"Look at them closely. What do they all have in common?"

Sherlock flicked through the wad of photographs. "Oh." Each photograph was taken at a different Christmas in Sherlock's life. They ranged from when Sherlock had been five years old to the first Christmas he'd spent with John. He looked miserable in all but one. It was the one where he'd been with John.

In that picture he and John had an arm around each other. They were both pulling cheesy grins at the camera, and somehow John had convinced him to wear those ridiculous reindeer antlers.

Sherlock swallowed around a lump that had formed in throat. "Why…why show me these?"

"Why do you think? " Mycroft asked. "You need him, Sherlock."

"I've got him." Sherlock bit back fiercely.

"Not all of him."

Sherlock could feel his patience slowly withering away. "Get out." He growled. When his brother made no move to do so he exploded. He threw the photographs into the air and stomped his foot on the ground to try and look intimidating. Though the effect probably only made him look like a child having a tantrum. "GET OUT NOW!" He roared. His brother flinched slightly and Sherlock smirked in satisfaction as Mycroft left.

Greg was stood at the doorway looking a little bit bewildered. "Is this a bad time? I can always come back later."

"No. It's fine. He's just in one of his moods."

Sherlock huffed when he heard John's words. "I do not have moods." He was too busy sulking to notice that John was going around the room and picking up all of the scattered photographs. That was until he heard John gasp.

He span around, his mouth hung agape as he saw John holding the photograph of their first Christmas together.

"When was this taken?" John demanded.

Sherlock studied John's face to try and determine what he was feeling. He looked stuck between furious and confused. "I…I can explain."

"Really?" John asked sharply. "Explain then. Explain this." He waved the photograph in Sherlock's face.

Sherlock sighed. There was no way around this. The truth had to come out. This was one situation he couldn't lie his way out of. "That…that picture was taken on the first ever Christmas that we spent together."

John's furious expression became even more livid. "That would mean I knew you before my head injury."

"Yes." Sherlock said quietly. "Yes. I knew you. We were flatmates. We solved crime together like we do now. We made an amazing team. We still do."

Everyone scattered from the room, afraid about how the current situation was going to play out. That just left John and Sherlock alone in the room.

"So, you lied to me. I asked you whether we'd met before and you outright lied to my face?" John paused, his lips tightening into a thin line. John's eyes were suddenly incredibly pained and haunted. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat as he saw the cogs in John's mind starting to move for the first time in a year.

"I remember."

The world seemed to move in slow motion from that moment. Somewhere between John saying those two small words and Sherlock finding himself splayed out on the floor a hard fist had collided with his nose.

He gasped and writhed on the floor in shock, pressing a hand to his nose to try and stop the steady gush of blood. "John?" He choked out as his friend raised another fist to punch him again. "Please. Stop. I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Soft and broken sobs escaped his lips as he waited for the second punch. It didn't come. Instead he felt arms wrap around him. It took him a few moments to realise John was hugging him and pretty tightly too. "I don't care about why you did what you did right now. You can explain everything to me later. And Sherlock, you'll explain everything. I'm not a child. I don't need protecting."

Sherlock turned his head so that he was looking directly into John's eyes. "How long have you known?"

"I began to get some memories through a few months back. I didn't act on them because…well…because we were happy. And I had an awful feeling that if I interfered with the web of lies you'd spun me that I would only bring unhappiness to us both."

"I really am sorry, you know." Sherlock whispered.

"I know you are. I'm sorry too."

Sherlock sniffled as the clock struck twelve. "Merry Christmas, John."

John hugged Sherlock close. "And a happy new year, Sherlock."

_Perhaps things are finally looking up_,Sherlock thought to himself. A small smile broke across his face, _I don't have to live a lie anymore. _

Sherlock felt the John Watson shaped wound in his heart starting to heal and he hummed in bliss.

_Home at last. _

* * *

**That's it! I'm not entirely happy with the ending here. I could have gone into a lot more detail with this fic, but you see, this has to be in before series three. I'm on holiday when the first two episodes air. At least I was smart enough to pre order the series on DVD. So, the good news is that there's a little epilogue for you all, the bad news is that I probably won't have time for fan fiction anymore. I want to write "real" things. And by real I mean my own original novels and scripts. :) **


	6. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

* * *

Jan 1st 2014

I got my best friend back at Christmas. Actually, I've had him back for a while. The idiot just neglected to tell me.

That's right. To all of you who have been gossiping. I can confirm that Sherlock Holmes is not dead. He is very much alive.

He probably thought at the time that he was protecting me from the truth. I think this is the first time I've seen Sherlock's protective side. I kind of like it. To those of you who think Sherlock deserved to "die" that night you're wrong.

Sherlock faked his death because he cared. He sacrificed himself for the three people he cared about the most. No. Your eyes aren't deceiving you. Sherlock is human, please remember that. It's important. Because one day I neglected to remember that fact. I called him a machine. That was wrong of me. I shouldn't have said that. It's the furthest thing from the truth.

Sherlock is the most human, human being that I have ever known.

I never stopped believing in Sherlock. Even when I couldn't remember him I think something deep inside of me wanted to believe in him.

We should all believe in Sherlock. Because without him the world would be a dark, dark place. I reckon we all need someone a little like Sherlock in our lives.

I'm just luck to have the genuine article.

That's it for my first post I suppose. Sorry about Sherlock deleting my old blog. It was just his attempt to block out the past. I'll probably post some of our old cases up in the future. My memory is coming back slowly.

Thanks for all of those who have been supportive. Spread the word.

#Sherlocklives

-John Watson


End file.
